To Sir, with Love — Part I: Word Association
by Musikus
Summary: Tom Riddle is caught playing a game... in class. "Bold. Beautiful. Divine. Delicious." [SLASH & AU feat. Tom Riddle and a delicious Professor Harry Potter]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Messrs Potter &amp; Riddle are the intellectual property of JK Rowling. Later on, I intend to sell Riddle's diary; proceeds will be used to purchase at least the aforementioned characters.

This was once again, as with Repairable Damage, written for the lovely _**Lillyleaf101**_.

* * *

_Lips. Cheeks. Eyes. Hair._

_Cherry. Peach. Cigarette. Chocolate milk._

Hmm.

_Heaven promised by cherry lips, peachy cheeks set on a backdrop of creamy skin, cigarette smouldering eyes, and milky smooth chocolate hair._

_Bold. Beautiful. Divine. Delicious._

_The inspiration of poets and the despair of painters. _

_EXTREME. DESIRE._

_A hot lick up the spine, an earlobe caught between porcelain teeth..._

"FUCK."

He blanched. Inwardly. And then mentally cursed his highly amused, scarred, sexy—_sexily scarred_—professor. And later, in the privacy of a secluded corner of the common room and under the guise of hand-serving a detention, he would crucio Avery for even suggesting that he play Word Association during Defence Against the Dark Arts ("Because you're always staring ahead; it's as though you're not listening. But you're Tom Riddle. You don't need to listen anyway."). And also because no one giggled at Tom Ri—

A note fell on his lap. It opened by itself.

_Later, Tom. Let's finish this lesson first. HP_

He turned to Avery, "Remind me to thank you later, Avery," and then proceeded to pay attention to the man in front of class.

_Wand. Sizeable wand. __**Later. **__**Mine.**_

Oh yes, he was going to thank Avery much, _much_ later by means of a lengthy crucio. Because no one giggled at Tom Riddle. Especially not a hot, bothered, flustered, and ravenous Tom Riddle.


	2. Chapter 2

It was without preamble that it happened. The moment he stepped through the threshold, he was assaulted by several things all at once: lips descended, the fluttering of angel wings tapping on his skin in a rain of kisses, and hands—cold fingers, warm palms—clutched at his neck and his hip, rubbing, groping, divesting him of clothing until all that was left on him was an arousal that begged to be touched. He found himself sweating like a sinner in church, and then down on his knees he went, throat dry, mouth watering, head void of all thoughts except for one word.

_**Mine.**_

On and on that word repeated itself: a mantra caused by the electric eyes that stared down at him and brought him to new heights, a chant in his mind that was fuelled by the fire in his loins and fanned by the sight of the marble statue he had earlier so admired and that was now laid bare before him, akin to something of an altar before which he was called to worship with eyes, hands, mouth, and tongue.

He gave as much as he could offer, took just as much, and then finally, as he later lay trapped between soft sheets and the hard, careful thrusts of his professor, mentor, lover, his—

"HARRY!"

Deliverance came, the proof of which was a string of pearls, gleaming and wet, strewn across the tapestry that was his smooth flesh.

He lay panting for what seemed like an eternity, sprawled across the fields of Elysium, both lost and found, complete and searching. He came back to himself as lips descended on him again.

The hot licks that were imagined at an earlier hour was administered, the thick red tongue from his fantasies lapping up the beads of sweat and union in a slow and torturous manner, flicking out and about like the flame of a candle. His hundredth moan began to well and rise from deep within his chest, only to be swallowed as a tongue was proffered to him, delivering a taste of the heaven he so wanted.

"Fuck..."

Green eyes stared up at him as a head of savage, dark locks lowered between his legs. "Later, Tom," Harry breathed, "Let me have a sly indoor smoke first," and then he proceeded to suck as if taking a drag from a cigarette.

The word _**fuck**_ became Tom Riddle's new mantra.

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A basilisk-sized thank you goes to Alex Turner for _a sly indoor smoke_. When I first heard that line, it immediately made me think of HP/TM. You may listen to that line with a tune in the Arctic Monkeys' **No. 1 Party Anthem**, a song that is definitely quite horcrux-y ("call off the search for your soul or put it on hold again").


End file.
